Michael laughed at me when—the title of a familiar song having given my tongue-tip the slip—I gave up the chase with the words: “I’m drawing a blank.”

“That’s literally impossible,” he said. “Once you “draw” anything, the paper’s no longer blank.”

I smiled in contemplation of the paradox. Such a common expression, yet so patently absurd.

“Drawing a blank” thus became line item fourteen on our running list of private amusements. “We’re at a baker’s dozen plus one”—I recall telling Michael at the time.

Six days thereafter, our baker went on strike in sympathy with our stricken friendship, which had suffered serious blows on the fateful day its component parties lashed out at each other. Both combatants were wounded; the whole—being greater than the sum of its two—mortally so.

As our friendship faded inexorably thereafter over five demoralizing years, “drawing a blank” morphed from amusing to somber.  “Drawing a blank” reverted to its figurative sense of coming up empty. However hard I try to bring to mind the wonderful moments we shared, all that ever comes to mind is…nothing.

Oh, I remember events, in their literal sense. I remember that we walked and where, that we talked and what about, that we lunched and what we ate. I can name ten of our fourteen funnies off the top of my head. Quiz me on the details, I would pass—better, I’ll just pass so as not to bore you.

And so as not to bore myself. Details, details—drained of color, flat of flavor, bereft of humor. They are “unsavory” details indeed—not of the oxymoronically to-be-savored salacious variety—but rather utterly devoid of zest. After all, how can one conjure ghostly delights when the magic has—poof!—disappeared?   

Yes, sad to say—I’ve effectively blanked Michael from my mindset, an unfortunate side-effect of my habitual use of pain-killers.

In the beginning, my drug of choice was costly. Silent witnesses to the expense are bursting from my closets—multitudes of superfluous shoes and accessories from myriad mall runs. As I began to run out of shelf-space, I began to run out of the need for an alternate anesthetic agent.

Back-to-front swapping the latter clause: Out of the need for an alternate anesthetic agent, I began to run. Running—rather than shopping—sprees: twice circling the cemetery, seven miles daily, six days a week, in order to exhaust my body and thus numb my mind.

Nowadays, I dull the chronic ache with writing sprees, which are free and mindful—in welcome contrast to their erstwhile counterparts in retail and tail-chasing.  Among my array of stories and essays are several pieces about what happened between Michael and me.

I just checked—counting this piece, they total fourteen. A baker’s dozen, plus one.